


In Soggy Slippers And Bathrobe He's Crowned

by blencashire



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-16
Updated: 2013-09-16
Packaged: 2017-12-26 18:55:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/969106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blencashire/pseuds/blencashire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before him sat a large boulder, big and grey and oddly smooth with a real sword protruding from the top, the hilt beautifully engraved and the metal silver and shiny. Arthur liked shiny things. [Reposted from FF.net]</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Soggy Slippers And Bathrobe He's Crowned

" _Do it Morgana."_

" _But Merlin, maybe you should-"_

" _Morgana please! If you don't I might not find him and we both know how well Arthur functions without me around to save his arse. Please…" Morgana heaved a sigh and nodded, a lone tear slipping down her unblemished cheek knowing she and Gwen might never see their boys again. Clutching the worn leather spell book tightly she chanted the spell as Merlin had taught her, trying not to falter as the rock grew around Merlin, encasing him in a perfectly smooth rock prison._

_Openly sobbing now she stumbled forwards and murmured the complex tongue-twisting words over and over again and slid Excalibur into the top of her friend's new resting place. She tired not to cringe, wondering if it hurt Merlin. She returned to Camelot with a heavy heart, and fell into Gwen's waiting arms._

* * *

"Sister, how can you be so sure he is ready? He is still-"

"He is  _not_ ready, but the world is. Emrys will guide him. It must be done." The three surrounding women nodded sadly, all staring upon Arthur Pendragon's still frail form laid out before them. Their leader, a flaxen haired beauty with skin smoother than cream and eyes to rival the midsummer sky, flicked her curls from her face and whispered ancient words over Arthur's still body. Before their eyes he faded and Igraine wept over his translucent face.

"Farewell, my beautiful boy. I will always be proud."

And then he was gone, nothing but a tiny life embedded in his new Mother's womb ready to be born again, ready to save the world.

* * *

_Merlin sobbed with the stormy skies as he rocked his King's cool body. His hand's clenched in the muddy ground and Arthur's blood streaked hair and his shoulders trembled violently with his sobs, drowned by the roar of thunder. Arthur's beautiful face was too young to be so very pale and Merlin desperately traced along the scant wrinkles that marred the once-gold skin, hoping it might make Arthur's death easier to see lines of pain and laughter experience. Not enough._

_He could see them drawing closer to his fallen king and he clutched tightly to Arthur's cape, red as the blood that stained Merlin's shaking hands. It was too soon, too raw, but the soft feminine hands reached out regardless and tugged Arthur away without effort. Merlin clung to Arthur's icy hand but, no matter how tightly he squeezed, it slipped away to swing idly in the air._

_Merlin scrambled to his feet, skin smeared with mud and clothes scorched to expose his skin to the wild elements but that could wait. Slipping and skidding he found Arthur's side again, just where he was always supposed to be, and pressed his lips messily to the king's as his fringe dripped icy rain water onto Arthur's eyelids. The Guardians moved away again and Merlin was left watching his Arthur drift away. A flash of lightning lit up the clouds and for just a moment Merlin could see the dewy drops from his hair clinging to Arthur's eyelashes like tears._

_Camelot's greatest sorcerer fell to his knees as Arthur finally left his sight._

* * *

"Arthur for goodness sake, I just cleaned these floors!" Arthur stopped short at his Mother's angry yell, foot dangling aimlessly in the air the kitchen tiles and dripping mud. Hopefully he turned his tried and trusted puppy eyes on his Mum, even throwing in a slight pout for good measure until she rolled her warm coffee-black eyes fondly and told him to go outside until she was done cleaning, and to expect a bath when he got back.

Deciding this was a small price to pay the six year old scurried out of the patio doors and rushed for the woods at the back of their weed-strewn garden. Arthur loved the woods, it made him feel safe to be under the shelter of the leaves, so tiny besides the tall trees, and he never got lost. Even when he wandered away from the path, he never got lost, and he knew why. The Woods protected him.

Today Arthur ambled deep into the woods, deeper than he'd ever been before in the hopes that his Mum wouldn't be able to find him in time for a bath. Arthur loved the mud on his face, the grass stains that painted the knees of his jeans, even the scratchy dirt trapped under his fingernails. So he scrambled over a fallen log and revelled in the moss that scraped across his clothes, and kicked through the crispy autumn leaves on the other side, yellow wellington boots shining dully in the dappled light.

Of their own accord Arthur's feet led him around a clump of prickly holly bushes, and he delighted in the puddles he found, splish-splashing noisily until a gleaming flash that was most certainly not his wellington's caught his eye.

Before him sat a large boulder, big and grey and oddly smooth with a real sword protruding from the top, the hilt beautifully engraved and the metal silver and shiny. Arthur liked shiny things.

Carefully Arthur glanced around the clearing thinking maybe someone had left it here, and they wouldn't be very happy if they caught Arthur trying to take it. But no one was in sight, and Arthur shuffled forward whispering for the wood's to keep him safe. He had to clamber up onto the rock to reach the sword, and scrunched his face when he realised the rock was  _warm._ But to six-year-old boys warm rocks held nothing over shiny swords, and Arthur reached out with his eager hands to tug hopefully on the hilt.

Nothing happened.

Arthur tried again, but still the sword didn't budge. Over and over he tugged and pulled and wriggled the sword but his efforts were fruitless, and Arthur's big sea-blue eyes brimmed with salty tears in frustration. Beneath him the rock grew warmer still and Arthur curled his knees close to his chin, rubber soles of his wellies smudging mud and broken leaves along the rock. In the distance Arthur could hear his mum calling him home, and suddenly a warm bath and his soft bed didn't sound so bad to his tired legs.

He jumped from the odd rock and started towards the holly bushes to walk home, but faltered uncertainly. Nibbling on his bottom lip Arthur squelched over the rain-soaked ground to the rock and hugged it as best he could with his too-short arms.

"I'll come back and visit tomorrow. Promise."

His mum's loud call echoed through the tress again and Arthur turned back for home, dragging his tired feet through the leaves without even noticing the snaps of twigs that usually made him squeal with delight. When he finally found his way home his Mum was waiting, fluffy towel in hand and lovingly exasperated smile in place. Tenderly she wrapped him in the warm towel and carried him inside, washing him with special care to keep his drooping chin above the bathwater.

That night, tucked up tight under his blue starry blanket, forehead still tingling from his Mum's goodnight kiss, Arthur dreamed about the sword and the boulder. This time the wonderful sword slid away with ease and from the rock thanked him for removing the pesky blade, and promised to always look after him in the woods…

* * *

Arthur kept his promise to the rock and the next day he ran back into the woods, straight to where he knew the rock and the beautiful sword would be waiting for him. He gave the sword an optimistic tug but only sighed quietly when nothing happened. Instead of wrestling with the sword Arthur curled up on the rock, the warmth there to greet him just like he had hoped. He didn't wander home until the first stars began to blink into the sunset-washed sky, but again he left with the promise to return.

Everyday he visited, always trying the sword but feeling little disappointment when it wouldn't budge. He brought books to read while he leant against the comfort of the boulder, and even once took paints along with him. He'd sat for hours, painting stars and dogs and clovers onto the rock. When he painted a big red heart he could swear the rock almost glowed. The next day the rain had washed the paintings away, and drops of water ran along down the boulder like tears.

Arthur visited every day without fail for almost eight years, bringing homework – which always seemed to grade well now - to complete upon his boulder, chatted vaguely about girls he liked until he noticed the rock turned cold when he did so he stopped. Then one day, Gawain asked him to go play football with all the other boys. At fourteen and eager to please his peers Arthur had readily agreed, snatching up his football boots by the blue laces and rushing away to play. The rock sat alone in the silent forest, cold as ice.

* * *

Five years on Arthur was frantically attempting to console his sobbing Mother, assuring her he'd be back at every break to tell her all about his lessons and taste her delicious home cooking again - and of course to get his clothe washed, which for some reason had earned him a slap. At eleven he was shooed up the creaky stairs, told to get plenty of sleep so he would be alert tomorrow.

Now Arthur sat on his bed, staring around his almost empty room, bare but for his bed and the boxes packed ready for him to take to university. He was exhausted from a day of last minute packing and goodbyes to childhood friends so Arthur leaned back on his bed, not bothering to slide beneath the star emblazoned blanket of his youth, and slipped off to sleep, eage.r for the night to end and for a new chapter of his life to begin the next day

_A man with hair the colour of sun-gilded wheat sat astride a powerful chestnut horse, hair whipping softly in the brewing winds. He addressed the gathered men, decked in gleaming armour and painted shields, his voice strong and powerful but encouraging._

_The mass of armour-clad men swarmed forward with a cry to attack their opponents, and the golden haired man was with them, battling with ferocity but honour. Atop a mossy green hill stood another man, with skin paler than the moon and wild tangles of dark hair that curled about his ears. His eyes were pure molten gold, and he radiated power, sending the opposing army crashing to the ground in waves. Tears rolled down his cheeks all the while, a small repentance for all the lives he stole._

_Then a blinding pain in the golden man's back, hot thick liquid slid down his back, and the ethereal man on the hill looked terrified as he rushed forwards._

_Blackness, a kiss, nothing…_

"Merlin!" Arthur jolted awake, sitting ramrod straight with the foreign name thrown from his lips. The dream had felt so real, he had felt the wind whistle through his hair, the blonde man's grip around the hilt of his sword, and the searing pain through his back as the blade of his killer tore through his chainmail.

Arthur followed the orders of his heart, leaving his brain fuzzy and bewildered in his bed while he pushed his feet into his soft slippers and snatched a flannel robe from the hook on his door. Practically flying down the stairs and through the patio doors Arthur dashed without reason into the trees he had once adored, following a well weathered track without stopping once to sniff a budding flower or toss a stone into a stream as his younger self once had.

Skidding around a tree he felt sharp holly leaves snatch on his robe and tear strips of the soft cloth away from his shivering body. A scrap of pale blue fabric was left hanging from the bush as Arthur padded forward through the puddles that soaked through his slippers. His lungs didn't want to breathe, so he just kept walking until he kneeled beside the large grey rock that had once been his best friend. Tentatively he stretched out a hand to touch the smooth surface of the boulder and winced at the ice that met his fingertips.

Hanging his head Arthur felt an inexplicable sorrow spread through his shaking limbs and reached out to hug the rock, amazed at how small it felt now his arms could wrap around it. Gulping past the lump in his throat, Arthur pressed his cheek to the chilly stone and murmured an apology. He trailed his fingers along the boulder, tracing patterns and shapes, a star, a dog, a heart, along the surface until his knuckles nudged a sleek metallic surface.

Glancing up Arthur was stunned for a moment to see the exquisite sword still standing proud, embedded deep in the boulder without a trace of rust to show for its many years braving the elements. A sad smile caressed Arthur's lips and he climbed onto the boulder, leaning back on his palms to stare for a while at the moonlit blade.

Beneath his palms the rock began to heat and Arthur gasped as the warmth spread slowly through the entire boulder and up through his own body. Arthur squared his shoulders then, and turned to face the sword that had invaded his childhood dreams.

Rolling up the sleeves of his flannel robe and bracing one soggy-slippered foot against the side of the rock Arthur reached out with a long fingered hand and pulled. Just as he's dreamed time and again, the sword slid free with a metallic ring that sent tremors down his spine. And then Arthur's face crumpled in horror as he watched the rock splinter out from the crack the sword had left, splitting down the sides to the grassy floor. The rubble and dust settled slowly, coating the crumpled blades of grass in a layer of grey that shimmered in the starlight, to reveal a lanky milk-skinned man sprawled amongst the fragments of rock.

Arthur remained pinned to a gnarled tree, too stunned and afraid to move closer and help the stranger. So he watched as the man carefully picked himself up, pushing his feet under him to stand on wobbly knees, bare as the day he was born and shuddering violently in the autumn wind. The spell keeping Arthur in place broke, and he padded closer to slip the thin blue robe off his shoulders and around the dark haired stranger. The man turned to face him, a grin spread wide across his face and Arthur gasped softly.

Saying nothing the man tangled his fingers with Arthur's, stroking thumb softly over Arthur's racing pulse until it calmed and Arthur smiled uncertainly in return. Their lips pressed together, though Arthur could swear neither of them had moved, his lips soft and smooth against the dry, chapped lips of the man. Apparently years of stone imprisonment took their toll.

"Merlin…" He breathed wonderingly as he pulled away, caressing a prominent cheekbone gently. "Merlin!" And this time it was a cry of joy as Arthur bundled the slim warlock into his arms and clung on tight while Merlin giggled ecstatically. The air was thick with relief and Arthur choked on all the words he wanted to say, the apology he couldn't seem to give to Merlin's face. Merlin smiled and squeezed his fingers tight, breaking the moment with patented Merlin ease.

"About bloody time you prat, that bloody thing has been poking me in the arse for the last five centuries!"

Chuckles ripped out of Arthur's throat and Merlin embraced him tight as the laughter turned to overwhelmed sobs.

"It'll be okay Arthur, now come on. You owe me a bath."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to annelisslashfan who actually enjoyed this enough to ask me to repost it here so she could add it to her kindle! Made my day =D


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